


A Chaos of Colours

by Empatheia



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-25 23:38:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12046695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empatheia/pseuds/Empatheia
Summary: Marcone POV. A short visit from Harry, for a happily predictable reason.





	A Chaos of Colours

**Author's Note:**

> 750words entry from earlier this year, while I was rereading the series.

People always said that one either saw the world in black and white or in shades of grey. More than one person had rightly assumed that he was not of a monochromatic bent, but even they missed the point.

There were colours in John Marcone's world.

Not in him, so much; Dresden had tried to explain once what he had seen during their soulgaze, and John had not disagreed with any of it. Of course he couldn't, without self-denial, since the soulgaze was the truest vision one could have of another known to man.

He wasn't colourful himself, but he lived in a world that was. There were things that were neither black nor white, nor any shade of grey; blood-red things, things green like money, that did not neatly fit into a sliding two-way scale of good and evil. Things that simultaneously helped those who deserved to be helped while harming those who did not deserve to be harmed, and vice versa. Things that changed the world in a hundred little different ways, some helpful and some harmful and some just... different.

He had the soul of an accountant. He always wanted to bring order to things that were inherently chaotic. The difference that set him apart, that made him the Gentleman rather than just one more paper-pusher, was vision. One could not hope to effectively influence something one could not grasp, after all. The average accountant could not see the vivid blare of colour across the world, could not even begin to formulate plans for how to tame it.

John saw. John saw better than just about anyone else he'd ever met.

The man sitting across the desk from him was one of the rarified few who even approached him on this front, though they disagreed vehemently on many things. That was probably because Harry Dresden was, despite all the mud he had walked through -- or perhaps, because he had walked through it all willingly for all the right reasons -- a good man. He wanted to make things better, save what could be saved and mend what could be mended.

Marcone wasn't a good man. He wasn't driven by good so much as a tremendously personal, untranslatable need to make things predictable. Not predictable for everyone, of course; just predictable enough for him to be able to stand living in a world where a little girl lay comatose in a hospital bed because of him. It could pass as a noble motive, in a certain light, but he knew better.

"Are you planning on getting to the nature of your visit at any point, Dresden?" he asked with openly thinning patience.

Dresden grinned, sprawled in and over the chair like a dark, lanky wolfhound. He was clean-shaven, so his life wasn't entirely down the drain at the moment, but his hair was growing long and shaggy, curling lazily around his ears and the edges of his forehead, so things weren't going as smoothly as they could.

John didn't trust Dresden to keep his word. Not as far as he could throw him. Maybe not even that far. But he  _ did _ trust Dresden to do the right thing for the right reasons, not matter how much it cost him, and that was just as valuable. It made him predictable, in that way that John so desperately  _ needed _ people to be predictable.

Usually, when people did that for him, it was by being as awful as he'd expected them to be. It was oddly refreshing to be able to predict that someone would save his life despite not having to, instead of predicting that they would throw him to the wolves.

Sighing, Dresden sat up in the chair and leaned forward, bracing his long-fingered hands on his knees. "And here I thought you'd be happy for a visit from an old friend," he said sardonically, the light in his eyes giving away what Marcone already knew: Dresden thought nothing of the sort. "But fine, I'll cut to the chase. You've got someone gunning for you again, and you probably already saw him coming, but just in case you hadn't, I thought I'd drop by and give you the head's up."

John frowned. He was aware of multiple threats to his life and empire, but none of them were new enough to have Dresden this jumpy. "I appreciate that," he said honestly. "I'm not sure if I'm familiar with this particular threat or not, however, so would you mind elaborating?"

It always unbalanced Dresden when he was polite and sincere. Sincerity especially grated on those nerves, coming from John, since Dresden knew about as much as there was to know about him. Nobody else knew about that little comatose girl. Nobody else had seen inside him the way Dresden had. It was a small pleasure to push Dresden's buttons, after the man had rendered him so vulnerable.

Harry shrugged. "White nationalist group has apparently managed to cobble together their own facsimile of some Norse god or other with ritual narrative and a whole lot of blood magic," he said. "Not as powerful as the ones you have on the payroll, but way nastier. They see you as some kind of race traitor for not allowing them to gun people they don't like down with impunity. Seem to think you should understand."

The beginnings of a headache commenced to throb behind John's eyes. "I know them," Marcone said. "Clearly, they don't know me as well as they think. I want order in my city. They want something quite the opposite. I'm quite happy to have the authorities deal with their sort."

"The authorities," Dresden echoed with a snort. "We both know where the real authority lies around here, Marcone."

John tilted a shoulder, graciously accepting the compliment though Dresden most certainly hadn't meant it as one. "Yes," he agreed equanimously, "and I have dealt with them as I saw fit."

Rolling his eyes, Dresden sighed. "One of these days, Marcone, I'm probably going to have to take you out. You know that, right?"

"I know you might have to try," John acknowledged, dangerously soft.

Unfazed, Dresden grinned. "Yeah. I guess we'll just have to see how that one falls out when the time comes."

"For what it's worth," John said in a gentler voice, "I'm not looking forward to it either way, Dresden."

Dresden was still for a long moment, meeting his eyes. A soulgaze could only happen once, unless a person changed so significantly that it was no longer really the same soul, so he and Dresden had nothing to fear from each other over this. There weren't many people Dresden could or would hold eye contact with like this. Sometimes John thought he held it at unnecessary times just for the pleasure of connecting with another person on that level, after months of dodging almost every other mortal eye he met.

"Me neither," Dresden admitted quietly. "You're not good people, John, but you're... I don't know. Someone I'd miss, I guess."

John's eyebrow rose despite his swift effort to hold them down. "You can't mean that," he said with a skeptical half-laugh. "What is it you always say about me? Untold human suffering laid at my feet? Cancer on this city? I never even disagreed with you."

Dresden grimaced. "Yeah, and I meant all that too," he said. "I've come to realize, though, that the problem is older than you, and won't die with you. There's a power vacuum, an imbalance, that had to be filled one way or the other, and nothing that filled it could be sunshine and puppies due to its nature. The existence of that vacuum is the problem, a structural problem, and I can't fix it. It's a politics thing. Infrastructure, funding, cultural support. Way outside my wheelhouse. Of all the things that could have rushed into that hungry open space, you're pretty far from the worst."

"Damned by faint praise," John responded wryly, but there was an odd familiar warmth in his chest.

He always got it whenever Dresden showed any sign of understanding or respecting him. He got plenty of respect from his underlings and business associates, but it was an entirely different thing to get it from someone who didn't wear their black hat with pride. Gratifying. Somehow, a relief.

"More like elevated by faint condemnation, but whatever."

John laughed. "I appreciate the warning, Dresden. Truly. I'll look into it, and I'll be ready when they strike. You won't have to come swooping in to save the day this time."

"I sure hope not," said Dresden fervently. "I've got enough crap on my plate as it is. You're welcome, anyway. I'll see myself out."

He unfolded from the chair to his full, impressive height, tipped an invisible cap at John, and turned to leave.

John caught his elbow at the door. "Dresden," he said quietly. "The things you're dealing with are too far beyond my ken, I know that. But if there's anything mortal enough for me to help with, call me in."

Dresden stared at him, dark eyes sharp with astonishment. "In exchange for what?"

"No price you haven't already paid," said John. "You went out of your way here to keep my skin intact. I won't say I owe you -- I know what that kind of obligation means, in the circles you run in -- but I will say you can count on me for a favour."

Closing his eyes, Dresden let out a weary sigh that sounded more than a little relieved. "If you're serious, I'll definitely take you up on that at some point," he said. "Not today, probably not for a while yet, but it's... comforting to know I have at least one ace up my sleeve for when the going gets  _ really _ tough."

John considered regretting this whim, but decided against it. Whatever Dresden pulled him into would be horrific, he was sure, and dangerous beyond the mere risk of death, but he would know why was he fighting, and it would be a reason he could live with. That was a lot more than he could say for most of the other favours he owed.

"Take care of yourself, Harry," John said, trying and failing to keep the affection out of his voice.

Dresden gave him a wry, crooked grin in return. "You too, John," he said.

And he was gone.

John sat back down at his desk and closed his eyes, listening to the rush of blood in his ears, feeling the uncharacteristic warmth in his chest. He was fairly certain he was incapable of honest love, but if there was any capacity within him at all for that or anything like it, he thought he knew where it would go. That was a deeply discomfiting thing to know about himself, but he wasn't in the habit of denying inconvenient realities, even when he was the only one who knew.

If he  _ could _ feel it, he would feel it for Harry Dresden. Since he couldn't, this strange warm affection was all there was, and it had already driven him to actions he regretted on many other levels. 

Never on the levels that seemed to matter most, though, in the end.

When Dresden called that favour in, he would answer with all he had, and that was the best he could do. It would just have to be enough.

**X**


End file.
